Twenty Little Things

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”

Inspired by this post at whatever, I’ve created a list of twenty little things I’d like to do this summer:

I resisted the temptation to write things on the list that I’ve already done.  It’s a rather strong temptation for me, in case you didn’t know that. 

And I promise to not treat this as a “to do” list.  You know, to prove that I did stuff.  That, unfortunately, is another one of my lovely tendencies. 

If we do half the things on this list, it will be a wonderful summer…

The Rules

This sheet of paper has been posted to William’s doors for several weeks now.  I finally bothered to read it.  Get a load of this:

William J (in case we weren’t sure exactly which William)

My rules

1.  Don’t look at me when I’m getting dressed. 

2.  Only six and up on the top bunk!  (this is important because excluding his brother from the top bunk is legitimate for another 6 months)

3.  If you pass gas in this room you will [have] to leave.

4.  No wrestling or jumping on the top bunk!  (if you try it, you’re liable to knock yourself out with the ceiling, anyway.)

5.  No hiding from me!

6.  Henry don’t yell talk sing or w[h]isper at bed time!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Alrighty then.  I’ll be sure to pass gas elsewhere when I want to remain in William’s room.

***

One other thing…I caught the two year old sitting at the island, chugging juice straight out of the container today.  She’s so klassy.  At least she didn’t chuck that across the room when she was done with it. 

***

Pink Jobs, etc.

Catchy title, don’t you think? 

Moving right along.

This weekend we had some friends over for a happy hour.  Oh how I love the happy hours.  Really.  

Outside.  Sunshine, warmth.  Chalk, bikes, bubbles.  The kids play.  The kids eat.  The adults talk.  The adults eat.  The margaritas flow.  Good times.  Sigh… 

Where was I?  Oh, right.  Happy hour.  So we’re all enjoying each others’ company and I totally missed the front end of this conversation but I did manage to hear the “…that’s a pink job” come out of the mouth of one of the men in our midst.  Let’s just call him Mr. Pink from now on.   

(Hi Mr. Pink!  Are you reading this?)

So yes, he said that pink job thing.  (I wish I could remember what job it was that he called “pink.”)  Anyhoo, there was a discussion that ensued, and I don’t really remember all of it.  Or any of it.  Except the pink comment. 

The idea is, I guess, that some jobs are “pink” and some jobs are “blue.”  Now, in this house, I don’t believe there are any pink or blue jobs.  There are jobs that I prefer to do myself for one reason or another, and there are jobs that The Man prefers to do himself.  Some jobs require strength that I don’t have.  Like mowing the lawn.  The Man likes to mow the lawn.  I concede that to him.  (If there IS a blue job, mowing the lawn is it, imho).   

So I’m just wondering.  Are there pink jobs and blue jobs?  Or am I just kidding myself?     

Oh, and we must all overlook Mr. Pink’s unfortunate position on pink jobs.  Because he makes the nice margaritas.  And if I’m being honest, I don’t want those to go away.  And also, he’s really a pretty nice guy.

***

In other news, one of the jobs ’round here has been claimed by Henry.  It is the “beer stocker.”  He has made it his number one priority to make sure the frigo is always fully stocked with beer.  I caught him doing it one day.  I walked into the kitchen and nearly tripped over a case of beer on the floor.  I wondered what the four little hoodlums had been doing with it, until I realized Henry was standing there, unloading beer from it and putting it in the frigo.  One small step for Henry, one giant leap for Mama.  Next I’m going to teach him how to pour a beer without a lot of head.  I’m kidding, of course.  He needs to know how to frost the mug before pouring.   

***

At what age do the table manners kick in?  Seriously, when? 

***

Ella throws her drinks.  Every single meal.  Every snack, every meal.  Everytime.  You should see her.  It’s rather comical if you’re not actually the one living through it.  She takes her sippy cup, turns it upside down and sucks furiously on it, and then chucks it across the table when she’s had enough.  I don’t get it.  Could she not set it down nicely? 

***

I’m featured over at 5 Minutes for Parenting’s A Dose of Humor!  Because I’m so very humorous.  Check it out!

Pretty Stories

Henry set the table on the patio that evening with an assortment of placemats and mismatched napkins.  I liked it that way…nothing matching…and little seashell napkin rings.  The six of us crowded around that table, enjoying the grilled steaks, and shrimp cocktails, and corn on the cob and tomato-basil salad.  And then we had rootbeer floats in those fancy soda fountain glasses. 

I looked around at one point, and thought what a pretty story it was…the six of us, together, on the patio on Father’s Day.  The sunshine was warm.  There was a breeze ruffling the leaves in the trees.  It was like one of those snapshots in your mind…how you think your life will be but rarely ever is.  Peaceful.  Happy.  Pretty.

The Man and I put the kids in bed that night, and then sat on the front porch with a glass of wine.  We watched the fireflies.  We listened to the crickets.  (We came inside when someone began blasting the crazy indian music.)  ((Not that I have anything against crazy indian music, per se, but it doesn’t really go with the crickety-firefly kind of evening we were having.))

We went to bed feeling like the day had been a really good one.   A really pretty one. 

And then the barf started.  (Do you see what I mean when I say it always comes back to the barf?)

It was the two year old this time.  (Their aim with the barf is real bad.)  ((Actually, they have no aim.  It just bursts forth.))  So I cleaned her up, The Man changed her sheets and I rocked with her for a while, then put her back in her bed, where without delay, she barfed.  Again.

So I bathed her while The Man changed her sheets again.  And I rocked with her again. 

We sat there in that rocking chair with the sour smell of barf still lingering in the room.  Her soft ringlets fell on my neck as her head rested against my temple.  I could feel her breath on my cheek and her tiny little body curl up into mine, just the way she had done when she was an infant.  Me and Ella, there in the small hours of the night. 

And right then, in the midst of all that ugly barf, I remembered how pretty my life is. 

“our lives are made
in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours,
these small hours still remain” — Rob Thomas

Oh, the Memories We are Making…

I am in the midst of the-last-week-of-the-school-year/end-of-year-parties/teacher-gift-assembly h*ll.  Therefore, being short on time, I am putting up a list of the seven-year-old’s memories which he began compiling yesterday.  And let me just say, I hope it’s not a complete list.  Or a “best-of” list.   Without further ado, I give you William’s Memory Book…

1.  I started Pre.K.

2.  I had field day in K(indergarten).

3.  I started K(indergarten).

4.  When I finished K(indergarten), I almost drownded.  (What?  You did?  When was that and where was I?)

5.  Henry barfed on the couch. (It always comes back to the barf.)

6.  Kate barfed in the car.  (Oh dear God don’t remind me of that ride.  That is a ride that will live in infamy in this family’s history.)

7.  Kate barfed pink.  (See a pattern here?)

 And that is William’s life to this point.  Or at least his recollection of it.  You’re welcome.

Butterflies

 

“But these are flowers that fly and all but sing…” 

–Robert Frost

Visit 5 minutes for mom for more wordless wednesday photos. 

 

Sick and tired.

I mean that in the literal sense.

Last week was just exhausting.  All the ants, and the cleaning, and the ants. 

There is an interesting phenomenon that occurs with me.  It is this:  whenever I experience a cleaning frenzy, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will be sick within the next two days. 

And I am sick.  I had the frenzy, brought on by the ants, which incidentally, are all but gone.  (And now would be the perfect time to proclaim a certain someone’s brilliance.  Soliloquy, you are b*r*i*l*l*i*a*n*t.  Soliloquy, of course, being the one that forced me to write that.  ((Woopsies, did I say that out loud?))  Of course what I meant to say was, Soliloquy being the one that suggested the Terro.  Which is da bomb. 

(why do I feel like an idiot saying “da bomb”?) 

Stick with me here. 

I haven’t yet been able to tell whether the cleaning frenzy brings on the cold, or whether my subconscious knows the cold is coming and forces me to whirl around my house like a tornado until I fall over in exhaustion and my body succombs to whatever dirty little virus the children bring home.  Either way, I am doomed. 

So I began the succombing part on Friday.  Saturday was worse.  And on Saturday, there was a pool party for the boy’s baseball team.  I told The Man to go, and leave me with the other three.  I could manage.  I’m not sure what I was thinking.  And then he left. 

Now, you must realize I am only slightly dramatic, and I never exaggerate.  Ever.  In the midst of my virus-induced angst, I said something like “I don’t know how he expects me to survive while he’s gone.”  And I wasn’t really kidding, either.  Which now, seems rather funny.  I sat there, on the edge of the tub, sobbing because there was no food for supper, and whatever would we do?   And I was serious.  Which also seems rather funny now.  (And also, I’m wondering how I came to be sitting on the edge of the tub…)

After the pity party, I sulked downstairs to figure out what we were going to eat. 

And that is when an eight year old little girl and a five year old little boy met me with smiles and told me they would take care of me.  That they would cook supper.  And that I should read my book.

They donned their aprons, and I pretended to read.  But mostly, I watched in awe, as my little girl and my little boy did something kind for their mom.  I couldn’t take my eyes off them, taking care of me.   

We had hot tea, for our throats.  And it was peppermint.  

And we had oatmeal.  Apples and cinnamon.  

It was the best supper I’ve had in a long, long time.  Oatmeal and peppermint tea. 

***

How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it!
~George Elliston

 

 

     

Faces

This week’s I heart faces contest is carries the theme of “sepia toned.”  My bosom friend Jenny suggested I give it a whirl.  Alrighty then, here is my entry…

She was gazing at her birthdaty balloons outside on the deck.  Is she a doll or what?  Check out her dimpled hands!!!  Oh, and do check out other sepia-toned entries at iheartfaces!

Okay, maybe I AM dirty.

The ants, they are worse today. 

I am beginning to think that maybe we are a dirty people, indeed.  Because yesterday, I cleaned.  A lot.  And the filth?  It appeared out of thin air I kid you not.  Read on.

I tried the vinegar.  I sprayed vinegar all day long in fact.  The whole house smelled of vinegar.  I even poured boiling vinegar down the disposal, just in case they were in there.  (And let’s just say you shouldn’t get too close to the disposal when you’ve just poured boiling vinegar down it, lest you burn your nostrils with the steam of the boiling vinegar, just FYI.  Not that I would be stupid enough to do that.)

Alrighty.  Moving right along.

So, I sprinkled talcum powder all over the carpets where there have been no ants, but I was in the zone.  (Ants apparently do not like talcum powder.)  Then I vacuumed the entire house.  It was powder fresh.

Then, I scoured the floors.  I swiffered.  I cleaned the floors.  I sprayed vinegar and cleaned again.  I doused the quarter-round with vinegar. 

I scrubbed the cooktop.  I scrubbed the kitchen sink.  I cleaned the coffee maker and toaster and all of the counters.  Everything shined.

I even pulled the fridge out, to make sure there were no ants underneath it.  Just so you know, that is the second time in less than one year that I’ve cleaned behind my frigo.  Before y’all call me dirty, I ask you…when was the last time you cleaned behind your frigo?  Alrighty then. 

I saw more and more ants.  Clearly, they are not deterred by the vinegar and the cleaning.

The funny thing is, I would vacuum, right?  Then, I  would lay on the floor, eye level, and look for crumbs under the island.  No crumbs people.  Five minutes later, there were 10 or 15 ants, hovered around a crumb the size of a small pea.  Now you tell me where they got that crumb.  I could not have missed a crumb that large. 

So I decided to out-clever them.  And I made some peanut butter bait with borax, put it in a jar with a lid poked with holes (so that Ella didn’t decide to have herself a little snack), and baited the little creeps.  Instantly, they swarmed the jar.  Okay, “swarmed” might be a little intense, but there were five or six ants that mounted the jar. 

Then I lay prostrate on the floor and watched their slow march to death.  Yes I did.   

Except they didn’t take the bait.  They turned around and left.  So anti-climactic. 

The ants, they out-clevered me.

So I vacuumed them and the magical, out-of-thin-air crumbs up.

Then the kids came home.  And therein lies the problem. 

They came home.  They broke out the snacks.  And, despite my pleas for cleanliness and neatness, they scatter crumbs everywhere.  There are ants everywhere.  And the children?  They didn’t clean up after themselves. 

Then I threw a bag of cheese.  (It was a moment of weakness.  I had a little  meltdown over the crumbs, the ants, and the boy whining about his spelling homework.  Oh, and The Man who informs me at 4:15 that he cannot go to the boy’s baseball game on time because he’s in a meeting.  Which gives me fifteen minutes to help the boy with his homework, get him dressed for baseball, pack a snack for Ella, get 5 pairs of shoes on, have everyone go to the potty, fill the water bottle, find the baseball glove, bat and umbrellas because it looks like rain).  Mm-hmm, so you can understand the cheese throwing. 

I probably shouldn’t admit to throwing cheese bags around. 

But I’ve already admitted that I have bugs. 

So now, I have the Terro.  Three days.  Three days is the claim they make, people. 

But my ants? 

They are clever. 

And I’m running out of the clever.  And also, the sanity…definitely running out of that.

I am not a dirty person.

Let me just say upfront, before I go any further, that I am not a dirty person.  We are not a dirty family. 

But the ants?  The ants think we are dirty. 

At first, there were just a couple of them…one here, one there.  We’d vacuum them up with the dustbuster and voila, they were gone. 

But then there were a few more.  Like maybe 100 throughout the course of a day. 

Today, I have lost count.  And it is 8:34 am people.

I don’t know where they’re coming from.  

I keep killing them. 

I am at the point now where I take great pleasure in smashing them.  Which incidentally, ants don’t smash that easily.  You really have to put some elbow grease into it, just FYI. 

And all of this sadistic ant-killing makes me feel a little unnerved. 

Please tell me you’ve had this problem, too?   (I mean the ant problem.  Not the sadistic ant-killing problem.)

Please? 

Anyone?

Lie to me if you have to. 

And while you’re at it, I need to know how to get rid of the little creeps.